The long hike toward contentment

A quote that stood out for me recently was this one from Socrates: "He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have." This can be taken in many directions. How much stuff do we need before we have enough? Do we put off doing the things we want until retirement and then try to pack in everything in the few years we have left?

Perhaps there is a middle way. Some years ago, as I was embarking on an out-of-town journey that would involve many nights on the road and various work-related challenges, a friend asked me if I'd ever felt at peace. He was on an unusual journey himself at the time, in the final stages of cancer. The question perplexed me. Had I ever really been at peace? He was facing the end of his life, and the question had particular force for him as well as for me, as he reflected on the past and asked me to reflect on mine.

Looking back, my life has moved at a fast pace. College, graduate school, work ... . There have been a few interludes. Peace was something I looked forward to in the future: a long weekend now and then, summer treks in the mountains when I could let go of responsibilities and really enjoy myself. One of my favorite memories is of a sabbatical my wife and I took in the 1990s that stretched into four months. But did this really answer my friend's question? What about all that time in between? Had I known peace?

Perhaps the idea that we can be at peace is also an acceptance that time is fleeting. It is not so much about quantity. We can never have enough. Socrates pointed out that the material of life is what we have, not what we wish we had. Sometimes all it takes is showing up, and the veil falls away and we realize we are in the right place at the right time in a way that only we can understand, like the time I spent with my friend on my way out of town. This may be as close to peace or contentment that we can hope for in this life.

One of the things my friend and I enjoyed together over the years was hiking. He grew up in Hoopa and showed me some of his favorite places. I shared some of mine, including Sharp Point, a pinnacle of rock standing just offshore from Dry Lagoon State Park. I returned there recently. It hasn't changed much. The same gentle ascent through old-growth birch and spruce forest, then a jog left that is easy to miss and requires some bushwhacking, and suddenly there it is: Sharp Point. After a short, very steep climb, you are on top of the world, looking out over ocean and beach stretching to the horizon.

By the end of the hike I felt a sense of peace. I think my friend would be pleased. I've decided that peace is an experience of quality in the moment rather than necessarily an ongoing state of mind. It sneaks up and grabs you, sometimes when you least expect it. An impromptu conversation can bring it on or a climb up a mountain. Perhaps this is what Socrates had in mind so many centuries ago when he talked about the nature of contentment. We begin by appreciating what we have now.

After my friend died, I journeyed up Sharp Point with his daughter, son and their significant others. We did a scattering of ashes and other memorial offerings. Since then the place has taken on new meaning for me: a place of memories, certainly, but also a reminder of a conversation years ago when I learned an important lesson regarding peace, or perhaps as Socrates would have said, contentment. It has stayed with me ever since.

The Rev. Eric Duff is an Episcopal priest and licensed clinical social worker who writes this column for the Times-Standard. He has a psychotherapy practice in McKinleyville. He can be reached at eric6017@suddenlink.net.